


(the house don't fall) when the bones are good

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (none of the angst etc is about that), Anxiety, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Martim Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Martim week: slow down, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), arguments? ish?, but they care for each other and its all okay <3, canon typical danny and mum trauma, like i didnt rate this e bc its so brief but there is sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29378925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: ‘Just...’ Tim closes his eyes as if against a headache, then shakes his head again. ‘Bad day. You can give up.’‘Hey,’ Martin frowns, gently squeezing his arm, ‘it’s fine. Maybe we just need to slow down?’‘Huh.’ Tim huffs.Martin blinks, taken aback. He tries not to be affronted by the noise. ‘What?’
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 9
Kudos: 43
Collections: Martim Week 2021





	(the house don't fall) when the bones are good

**Author's Note:**

> martim week day 5 :)) the prompt was slow down which is vague and incheresting i thought. title is from a hozier song I KNOW I KNOW but the foundation of care and good intentions even if other things go wrong. ... thats them thats love... 
> 
> hurt comfort is INTRINSIC to them as a pairing 4 me its about... even if they never get to quite to the bottom of the trauma they can comfort each other🥺 
> 
> most of the sexual content is entirely over within like two paragraphs. words for tims body are cock and chest

Things have slowed right down since the make out that got a bit frenzied on the sofa moved to the bedroom. They’ve been building and building, kissing and taking their time getting undressed with bursts of urgency that kept them moving forward and forward, and now they’ve hit a bit of a wall.

It’s not an unpleasant wall. Martin doesn’t mind slowing down in the slightest - he could live buried in the crook of Tim's neck forever, kissing and sucking and tonguing at him there, laid half across his chest with fingers slow inside him. He loves taking his time, dragging it out, hearing Tim’s non-stop mouth go incoherent above him. It’s just that this... isn’t that. They hadn’t set out as a slow endeavour, and he’s not been here for half an hour for any fun reason. Whatever it is that isn’t working, it isn’t at all working. 

Martin is not in any way a quitter though, and if things take time then they take time. A change of pace maybe. He kisses under Tim’s jaw gently, draws his fingers slowly out to just skate over his cock. Gently. Most of the earlier wetness has dried tacky.

Tim sucks a breath in through his teeth, a soft, grimacing sound. Martin stills his fingers, splays them and just rests his hand a moment. 

‘No?’

Tim shakes his head. 'Sorry,’ he sighs, shuffling against the pillow. ‘Just not working today.’ He doesn’t sound at all happy.

Martin flops onto the next pillow and turns to look at him. ‘You just need to get out of your head,’ he says. 

Tim side eyes him pointedly. He sighs. 

‘Yes I get the irony. Haha. Just proves I know what I'm talking about.’

They’ve not done so much of this yet as more than friends. Most of their  _ how are yous, wanna talk about it?s  _ and  _ can I helps?  _ have been at work. It’s not been many times that the sex hasn’t worked, honestly, that it hasn’t managed to make them both feel better. The few time’s they have faltered it’s usually Martin’s overthinking, and Tim is an expert at turning his brain to mush. When they talk after it’s nothing important, or it’s everything but it’s silent touch and swapping oxytocin. 

But Martin wants to help, and if that means getting better at talking and taking his own turn helping Tim escape whatever it is that’s creasing his forehead, then he wants to try. As exposed as they are right now he’s still relaxed from the long, long make out session and all the soft touching that he feels ready to try. It’ll bring them closer, right? He wants to be closer. He wants to fix it. 

He props himself up on his elbow, ignoring the way his arms are rapidly getting a bit chilly in just his joggers.

‘Hm?’ He prompts, running his fingers loosely over Tim’s elbow. They’re practically dry now.

‘Just...’ Tim closes his eyes as if against a headache, then shakes his head again. ‘Bad day. You can give up.’

‘Hey,’ Martin frowns, gently squeezing his arm, ‘it’s fine. Maybe we just need to slow down?’

‘Huh.’ Tim huffs. 

Martin blinks, taken aback. He tries not to be affronted by the noise. ‘What?’ 

‘We’re going pretty bloody slowly already.’

‘Okay,’ Martin treads slowly, eyes narrowing, ‘so-’

‘Everything’s too fucking slowed down at the moment, feels like.’ 

Tim pulls his arm free then to knead into his eye sockets with the heels of his hands, grimacing and blowing out another grumbling breath. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Martin asks him point blank. Then he sighs and tries again, nicer. ‘What’s wrong, Tim? You can tell me.’

‘Nothing.’ Tim sits up and rests his elbows on his knees, bunched up in front of him. ‘I’m just... Missing before, you know.’ 

In the quiet he leaves to pick his shirt off the floor and tug it on, Martin takes that in and tries not to immediately jump to what part of him irrationally considers the obvious.  _ Before me? _

With his shirt on, Tim crosses his arms and leans his cheek on them, looking over at Martin now. He makes another frustrated sound and Martin gives him a sympathetic face, rubbings his shoulder encouragingly. 

Eventually he sighs. ‘Feel like I’m going nowhere,’ he admits bitterly. ‘I used to have a  _ good  _ job, you know. I wanted to do that job.’

‘This job’s alright, though. Right? I mean you like Sasha and Jon and me? And you’ve got a nice flat on your own.’ 

‘Yeah,’ Tim just says. He turns back to looking at the wall. ‘It’s just... never thought I’d fucking be here.’

_ Not about you,  _ Martin tells himself before his face can look offended.  _ Not about this bedroom.  _ But he can’t really see the problem otherwise. He knows the feeling,  _ how did I get here? _ Obviously he’s asked it himself, every human being has. But he never expected or dreamed of anything more than a job he didn’t love, didn’t hate. What’s wrong with their work, really? 

Okay, they’ve all got problems, Elias is creepy and Chelsea is expensive, and sometimes things get a bit venomous when they end up working late, but he thought Tim  _ liked  _ the archives. Or didn’t mind them at least. A job is a job is a job, and this one pays and has nice people and stable hours. But he supposes Tim could work anywhere without lying. 

‘Why’d you quit then?’ He asks. He gets nothing back. ‘Tim?’

‘Don’t wanna talk about it.’

‘Really? Might help if-’

‘I said I don’t,’ Tim almost snaps. ‘I don’t, it was a stupid fucking decision and I’ve not even-’ he groans angrily. The more upset he gets the more he seems to gain energy and weight in his words. He doesn’t need to talk so loud, just the two of them. ‘It wasn’t even  _ worth  _ it cos I haven’t made any progress, I haven’t solved anything, I’m just fucking rotting in that basement when I could have done what I  _ wanted  _ to do, what I  _ studied  _ to do, you know?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Martin tries again to squeeze his shoulder, ‘that sounds-’

‘Jesus,’ Tim bites, ‘what a fucking waste.’ He throws his arms up and his shoulder is freed. 

Something in his tone is too sharp, too loud. It cracks at the bedroom’s warmth like glass smashing - a bottle. The pitch white of this week’s milk over the grimy kitchen floor, shining slightly in the light and spreading under the cabinets.  _ Fucking waste.  _ A disappointed face above him and his eyes itching hot with stupid tears. Martin tries not to visibly flinch as he makes the right sympathetic sounds and shifts himself off the mattress. 

‘Okay,’ he says gently, ‘okay, okay, why don't you just sit tight there, and I'll put the kettle on, alright?’

_ I’ll fix it, let me fix it.  _ The fact his soothing tone is partially for his own benefit doesn't seem to escape Tim's notice.

‘Martin,’ he sighs, exasperated, ‘I don't want tea-’

But Martin is already halfway out the door. ‘It's no trouble,’ he calls back, ‘you don't have to get up.’

The process of picking up the kettle, popping the lid open, turning on the tap, hearing the rush of the faucet, feeling the water weight get heavier in his arms, is a reassuringly busy one. It's harder to cry when his hands are busy. He will, when he flicks it on.  _ Stupid _ . 

The kettle starts to roar and he wipes his palms against his joggers. The heat of being under the covers, of the moment, of anxiety, is very weird under the cool of his skin in the cold kitchen. He wishes he'd put on a shirt. Only then it'd be sticking with sweat. 

The kettle boils away and he looks up at the ceiling, blinking back wasteful tears.  _ He hates you he hates you he hates you  _ comes the predictable nonsense as sharp as he'd heard Tim's voice. The longer he stands there telling it it’s being illogical, the more rational it starts to sound. Missing the past  _ (you weren’t involved).  _ Hating this job  _ (the job you share).  _ What a waste of time  _ (being here, being with you, you trying to help, you trying to be good in bed.)  _ Eventually the kettle clicks off, hot steam fogging up the counters, and logic circles back to nonsense that has convinced itself it makes sense:  _ You can't even help him and he hates you.  _

Martin tries to trap it under the mugs he slams down. Nope, he tells it quietly as he drops the teabags in. No drops make it onto his cheeks, but he is wiping his palms again when a pad of feet behind him makes him jump. 

‘Hey,’ Tim murmurs. Impossibly gentle, the furthest from before it could have been. He’s pulled pyjama bottoms on and has a blanket around his shoulders, dragging on the floor like a child’s makeshift cape. 

‘God, sorry you made me jump.’ Martin sniffs, wishes he had a sleeve to hide it behind. ‘You want decaf or?’

‘I didn't really want tea, to be honest.’

‘Right. Yeah. Sorry.’ 

Tim clicks his tongue sadly and stretches out the blanket in offering. Martin flops onto his shoulder and he brings them both into the fuzzy fabric for a hug. It's normally the way they patch things - a hug can end a playfight gone sour in a moment, give the comfort one or both of them need much more simply and less embarrassingly than asking for words. It never feels like cheating, always like sinking into the solution. Or the start of it at least. In the warm of Tim's chest and the blanket Martin shivers and squeezes tighter. 

‘I’m not angry with you,’ Tim mumbles against his skin. He strokes up and down an arm as he repeats it, soothing. ‘I’m not. It’s not you.’

‘I know, I'm sorry, just... brain. I'm not good with... conflict. Shouting.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, don't be-’ Martin shakes his head and sighs at himself in the neck of Tim’s shirt. ‘I wanted to talk about why you were so frustrated and then you were frustrated and I ran away, that’s... that's not your fault.’ He pulls back to look up as he asks ‘can we try again?’

Tim tilts his head. ‘We don't have to if you-’

‘No I want to. I want to listen.’

The tea is finished and Martin grabs a shirt before they make it to the sofa and try again. A lot of it, it turns out, boils down to Tim admitting sadly that he misses his brother. He doesn’t expand on that really, only slumps a bit into the cushions. Martin can’t quite connect the dots of how that connects to problems at work but his curiosity is snuffed completely out with Tim’s hopeless tone, empty sad eyes. Martin remembers hearing Sasha briefly mention a brother, and he can only guess from the situation that whatever went down, calling him is no longer an option. 

He doesn’t pry, just hums and squeezes Tim’s hand. It seems to be enough. Tim doesn’t cry when he says it again  _ (I just miss him sometimes) _ but he sighs into another hug like he can breathe again now. 

‘Thanks,’ he says when he eventually pulls back again, and that seems to be that done. He smiles gently, kisses the back of Martin’s hand where he’s still holding it. ‘Feel better now. Honestly. You’re a good listener.’

Martin squeezes his hand back. 

Then Tim asks him ‘You're alright, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ he says effortlessly, ‘don't worry about me.’

‘I do though,’ Tim insists. ‘I hate seeing you upset. And I can't... I can't fuck up and lose you too.’

‘You won’t,’ Martin promises him, rushing forward to cup his cheek. ‘Hey... I'm not going anywhere, okay?’ He huffs a gentle laugh. ‘Takes a lot more than a bit of shouting to scare me off.’

Tim makes a face. ‘That's not nearly as reassuring as you think it is, you know. Not anyway and not after... tonight.’

He’s asking. Implicitly, he’s asking, and in his defence Martin hasn't told him everything. He just doesn't really - it's sad, it was in the past, it doesn't matter anymore. But Tim knows visiting days tend to make him miserable at best, make him cry on this very sofa more often than not. He knows there's no dad in the picture, never was, we don't talk about it. That’s all there really is to know, isn’t there? On another night maybe he’ll talk about how it all makes him feel. Tonight the catharsis and comfort has seeped into him too and he doesn’t want to open that can of worms. 

‘You're not gonna lose me, okay?’ He says instead, stroking circles on Tim's cheek with his thumb. It feels odd and fiercely right to promise the very thing that scares him too. ‘You're not.’

Tim smiles at him. ‘Thanks. Promise you’re good?’

‘I promise,’ Martin says truthfully.

It is truer still when Tim wraps him in another hug, only pulling back after a long while, and only then to kiss him.

They reheat some of their early dinner to make a late-night one and eat it in bed. Afterwards cuddling turns into a wound mess of limbs, fingers stroking on bare hot skin. It’s in the muddle under very warm covers that kisses to temples turn into kisses to necks, sliding hands going from sides to hips and then under clothes. Tim has heavy, loving hands that want to go everywhere even before he’s decided the night is going somewhere, but Martin promises it’ll be alright if he just waits his turn. If he lets himself relax and take it first. He still grabs all over the place when he nods. 

The journey is slow as treacle, as sweet as the look on his face when he finally comes with a small shudder and a sigh like he’s going to instantly nod off. He doesn’t of course; he pulls Martin closer into his side and presses his dry mouth into his hair like a kiss. He’s very cute all blissed out, Martin thinks as he always does. And actually it seems to have been effective enough that his impatient fingers are slow themselves to pull clumsily at Martin’s drawstrings. 

When he manages to shuck the offending joggers off he rolls over, pressing his warm mouth up Martin’s shoulder, gradually onto his neck. His hand is light as anything but still draws a shuddering gasp.

‘Mmm,’ he hums happily, ‘I seem to remember you saying something about slowing down.’

‘Oooh,’ Martin groans a laugh, takes a gentle fistful of his hair, ‘you bastard.’

**Author's Note:**

> your honour... them two <3 hope u are enjoying this week uwuwuwu


End file.
